


A Pocketful of Supposes

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Flowers, Fluff, Getting Together, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Aziraphale tries out a certain human practice to figure out what Crowley feels about him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 18
Kudos: 83
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	A Pocketful of Supposes

**Author's Note:**

> Because these two really just can't TALK to each other, can they
> 
> Prompt: unlucky.

Aziraphale is certain that he loves Crowley.

And no, it wasn’t in the general “angels love all creatures great and small” kind of love; it was more along the lines of “I would really love to spend eternity with only you” kind of love. Granted, he didn’t really warm up to the idea until fairly recently – around eighty years ago, give or take – but now that it’s been made clear, it’s been rather difficult for him to not think about it. Not with the Apocalypse that wasn’t finally behind them, not with Crowley being a regular presence in his life nearly every day since.

What he _isn’t_ certain of is if Crowley loves him back.

If Aziraphale allows himself to hope, he would say that it is actually possible. They’ve had 6,000 years of history together, and no one understands him better. Beyond working together – and he has never been more thankful that he allowed Crowley to talk him into the Arrangement – Crowley has actually spent a lot of time with him, just because.

(Aziraphale also thinks about chains broken in a French prison by a snap of demonic fingers, books saved during a London bombing, the desperate idea of an escape to Alpha Centauri – and then he has to stop thinking, because he starts blushing like a lovesick fool, which is really not too far from the truth.)

But he really just isn’t _sure._ It’s not like he can just walk up to Crowley and _ask._

And that is how it has come that Aziraphale is currently pulling petals from a little red rose, discreetly taken from the table centerpiece from their most recent lunch at the Ritz. He had pocketed it in his coat, and his fingers had brushed against the soft petals while on this morning’s walk to his second-favorite bakeshop.

_He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me._

(It’s embarrassing that he’s essentially consulting plants and fate to figure this out, but this is still the preferable option, at least as far as his dignity is concerned. Also, he does think that this practice is rather cute.)

Aziraphale’s down to the last three petals on the bud now, and… well. It’s landed on “he loves me not”.

Hmm. Bad luck today, then. But no matter. It would be different next time, wouldn’t it?  
  


*~*~*~*~*  
  


Aziraphale is now sorting out the latest set of book deliveries. He had found a seller offering much in Irish and Gaelic manuscripts, and he is quite excited to go through the items. And, well, if it helps keep him from wondering if Crowley would visit today, that’s neither here nor there.

The books are very meticulously packaged, individually and carefully wrapped in layers of tissue, paper, plastic, and archival stock, even a thin leather casing. Aziraphale is pleased that this seller may be quite close to his level of an enthusiast in books, considering the great care taken in transporting them. Then, he opens the first box and finds several clovers on top of the book cover.

Before he can help himself, Aziraphale pulls on the leaf of the first clover. _He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me._

He continues on with the three-leaf clovers, his breath quickening slightly with excitement. Then he gets to the last clover, and oh, it’s a four-leaf clover. He knows it means good luck, and he quickly continues until he realizes that he started with “he loves me.”

Meaning it has to end at “he loves me not.”

Feeling ashamed at the disappointment welling up in himself, Aziraphale quickly tidies up the clovers and tucks them back into the archival box. He reminds himself that it probably shouldn’t count, because they were leaves, not flowers. He really doesn’t want it to count. This is probably the first time that a four-leaf clover left him feeling so put out; he usually adores them, considering he had a hand in inventing them.

_Just_ how unlucky is he that it’s ended up at “he loves me not”, _again?_  
  


*~*~*~*~*  
  


Maybe the best way to improve his chances is to get flowers with more petals, then. And also, third time is the charm, right? (Aziraphale is aware he’s being selective with his justifications, but he tells himself he’s also just being precise. Scientific method and replicability and sample size and all.)

Aziraphale procures a sunflower from the flower shop a few blocks away. It’s a large one, in full bloom, with promisingly numerous warm yellow petals that remind him of Crowley’s eyes. So lovely. Yes. This flower may actually be the one, with its many many petals.

He honestly didn’t consider how long it would take to pluck _all_ of them, though. It’s been nearly an hour now. He’s just sitting behind the bookshop counter, pulling at the petals and carefully depositing them on a tray. He really would rather not litter, and this is something that would be just a _little_ hard to explain if someone were to find petals scattered all over the bookshop floor.

Slowly, surely, and oh so hopefully, the golden petals begin to build up on the tray.

_He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not… he loves me. Please let this be the last petal. Oh, is that still another?_

He pulls the last petal – _he loves me not_ – just as Crowley enters his bookshop. Aziraphale quickly dispatches of the denuded sunflower and its petals to the back room with a quick miracle. He tries not to let his disappointment appear on his face; if the appearance of the love of his life in the doorway just as the last petal answered a resounding “he loves me not” isn’t a clear sign of his utter crap luck, he doesn’t know what is.  
  


*~*~*~*~*  
  


When Crowley suggests a walk at St. James Park that afternoon, Aziraphale can hardly refuse. He closes up his shop and meets Crowley there. They stroll along the garden paths, looking over the flowers beginning to bloom. He tries not to laugh at Crowley’s muttering under his breath at how disappointing the plants look, compared to the ones in his flat; Aziraphale knows that the demon is particularly proud of his own plants, regardless of all his complaints about them, and probably considers them worthier of public display than the ones currently in the park.

Suddenly, Crowley slows his walk to pluck a particularly large and showy daisy from among those growing in the grass bordering the garden path. Aziraphale shoots him a questioning look. Crowley simply smirks and points to the “Please don’t pick the flowers” sign next to the path.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “So I take it you’ve completed your hellish deeds for the day, then,” he says teasingly. Crowley laughs a little, then hands the flower to Aziraphale. And now the angel finds it difficult to breathe, at this image of this handsome demon handing him a many-petalled flower like a lover from a regency romance. _Oh… he’s giving this to me. To me. Maybe this is it. Maybe this time I’ll finally get the answer I want?_

Aziraphale slowly plucks the petals as they walk towards their usual bench, murmuring under his breath. _He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not._ As they sit on the bench at last, Crowley notices the trail of petals. “I didn’t think you were one to litter, angel,” he commented, but Aziraphale doesn’t answer, so focused is he on counting out the petals, on maybe, _finally_ getting a different answer from this flower.

Aziraphale leans back on the bench as he finishes plucking the petals, becoming aware of Crowley’s suddenly quiet gaze on him. There are still a few petals left, but he knows now that he will not get a result that is any different from what he has gotten in the previous days. Still, he might as well finish it. _He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…_ “He loves me not.” He concludes with a soft little sigh, looking over to his companion.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale laughs weakly. “It’s nothing, my dear; I’m being silly, but… I had hoped this time around, it would be different.” He can’t bring himself to say anything more, or to even continue looking at Crowley.

Crowley reaches over and, taking the denuded flower from Aziraphale, inspects it for a moment. He removes his sunglasses to take a closer look. Then, he plucks the head of the flower clean off from the stem, and drops it on top of the small pile of flower petals on Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale is taken aback.

Crowley looks at him seriously, his expression nervous and uncertain and just a bit hopeful. “He loves you.” He says quietly, shyly, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps within his chest.

Crowley continues looking at him bravely, and Aziraphale cannot stop himself from breaking into a smile. He brushes the flower petals from his lap, and takes Crowley’s hand in his. “I love you, too.”

As the demon smiles back and pulls him into an embrace, Aziraphale is certain now that he is the luckiest entity, ethereal or occult, in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> RIP to the flowers that Aziraphale plucked bare; not sure if Crowley will be pleased if he knew :)
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
